P.O.V Sinatra:
(Thursday)
A week and two days have passed since the Field Trip Fire, or (as us students like to call it) "The Big Flame Theory". Some ploy on the beloved show "The Big Bang Theory". I'd heard the nickname from another student as I was being prodded into an ambulance. Seemed like the kind of thing to students would catch on. News of the fire has been the headline on every channel this past week. I had even seen it in the hospital room I had been stuck in, when the nurse left it switched on. Every day, for seven days straight, the same headlines repeated the same cacophony of howls coming from people stuck and fleeing in the building. Then they showed me. And the girl. A wide, blue-eyed sophomore who hardly took a step outside before passing out.
I got up from my desk and crossed to the opposite side of my room where my laptop sat. The muted sun brandished its weak rays against the sleek black chrome and scattered the glint like sprays of blood. There was no chair placed by the computer's corner in order to avoid filling the room's space with unnecessary objects, so I stood.
Stood, and hovered. My hand came up and rested on the mouse, feather-light and smooth in its touch. The mouse's cool exterior nudged against my skin, taunting, until I finally clicked. The login page popped up, disappeared with a few seconds of smooth keystrokes, and replaced itself with a patterned black background. A web-page was brought up and laid bare before me in all its valuable uselessness. The headline read "Lab Fire Miracle Girls". I twitched and quickly scrolled past the title. The article continued on until it stopped midway to show off a video taken from a civilian. The guy managed to catch the girls as they headed off in an ambulance. I hovered the mouse over the play button, taking a second for the pivoting in my gut to decrease. It didn't.
The mouse didn't hover for long. Before I knew what I was doing, the video was already playing. One ambulance was glimpsed charging past, too fast for the camera to not blur. If it hadn't, then people would've seen me. Still coughing out my lungs and choking on my own tongue. Me, trying to not wave away the people helping. Struggling to not push them off so I can go lick my own wounds, but that wouldn't have worked anyway. In a case like this, getting help was better, more important, than my pride. The other ambulance, however, was in focus. It was forced to roll to a stop as a car sped in front of it and cut it off from its brother. A fist shot up and crashed on the little back window repeatedly, before the girl was able to pull herself up all the way and shove her face right next to her fist. The article labeled her as Chloe Hall, a quiet girl who didn't cause trouble. Judging from the video, maybe not so quiet after all. Not so innocent as they thought. But she may very well have a quiet little secret. I watched on with narrowed eyes, cold as flint, secreting a cloud of suspicion that hung in the air.
She was mouthing something to whoever might be watching. Then the ambulance sped away and the camera man followed with labored breathing just in time to see the medical officers attempt to pull Chloe down. The visuals swayed and shifted from pavement-ed roads to grass, then cut to nothing. I re-wound five seconds. The girl was banging.
Four seconds. She was trying to speak.
Two seconds. The ambulance sped away.
I focused. Re-wound. Searched for a familiar little flicker.
There. Three seconds. The girl's eyes were different. Just the same as the last three times I'd checked, same as the first time I'd caught it. Same as the video will always show. Gone were the blue orbs, pulsing with life and terror, calling out to any family she may have. Instead, they were now white. White with a fleck of green in each, and little splatters of black, too, like mold. I leaned closer. The change didn't even last a second. Blink and you miss it. Just a half-second. Even less so, actually. Small enough, fast enough to be a glitch in the camera should anyone attempt that claim. Yet my gut said that wasn't it. New mutant? I pondered. Or just an old one who was never found?
My phone buzzed, snapping me from my musings.
I picked it up and unlocked it. A text icon of unknown number hung at the top alerts bar. I swiped down and tapped it. A message asking about my involvement in the fire greeted me. More specifically, a message asking "have you talked to Chloe? she's asking about u" greeted me. Chloe, who I saved. Chloe, who might be a mutant or similar. Chloe, who'd been asking to speak with me by getting her friend to find out my number. She just wants to talk with her savior. That's not uncommon, whether said savior be Iron Man in his suit, or another fellow student. Either way, she seems like the type to try to say she owes me a life debt now. I smirked at the thought.
Mutants, despite their exile and prosecution in most places, are still people, too. Most of the time they wandered lost, and scared. But always looking for a home, a family whenever they could. Sometimes they got lucky in their search. Sometimes it seems forgettable that they even exist, after everything they've been through. Just another scapegoat to be skinned. But isn't that what makes them human? All their trials, and they're still just trying to find family. I tiredly shook my head, felt my chest expand, exhaled. Heard my throat cough up a dry, humorless chuckle. Family. So important to most people. So large with most people. But my one number hardly sticks around much to be called 'family'.
This disaster fire was important to people, too, for obvious reasons. The article I had found called me and Chloe "Miracle Girls", but right now, that seemed far from the truth. The only good thing to come of the disaster was a frenzy of angry and afraid parents forcing the school to take a two-week long shut down, in fear of their children's lives. Part of that mob included my own father, whom I had nearly cried when seeing he showed up in my hospital stay. He, in turn, already had tears skittering down his face when he visited. I looked away from the screen, of which my, as usual, my gaze had gone foggy on as I lost myself in thought. A wave of nausea pushed up and abruptly swept the floor from beneath my feet, turning my vision tipsy and blurred. I leaned against the wall for support, similar to how a drunk may slump against wherever they lay. I waited for the twisting visuals to right themselves before taking another step. Now that my attention was no longer laser focusing on something, hunger had reared its vicious cobra head. I took a steadying breath and closed my eyes, thankful for the curtain of night that descended upon me. It helped to both dually push down the urge to throw up, and stopped fumes of sickness from overtaking my mouth.
I pushed my bedroom door open and it revealed a sparsely furnished hallway. The light from outside never did manage to reach the end of it no matter how bright the day is. The pale walls were bare, save for a picture of a forest that my dad had bought in an old antique shop, back when we lived in Washington. It was complete with a tiny table situated beneath it with a potted cactus on said table, which was growing quite nicely due to my father's watering effort. When he first got it he suggested I put it in my room. Not much of a problem, unless you count the fact that any plant I'd ever had died quickly. I never could seem to water it enough to keep it alive, I smiled wryly. Making my way through the condo I tried to ignore the gnawing hunger seething within my body. Ever since the fire happened it'd been worse.
More absolute. More frequent. More consuming than hunger ever used to feel. I couldn't tell if I was going to puke or pass out first, and it was infuriating in its distraction.
Ever since getting back from the trip it was as if a hole had been opened within me, and so far there was no end to it. It demanded attention, nourishment, with a deep-seated sensation that seemed nothing less than alien. Even in the hospital I could feel something off. A sensation, a weak squirming foreign in its touch. Something in my body that I nearly attempted to claw out myself. But I'd just do more damage, and I hadn't been fully recovered yet.
Eventually I couldn't stand it. Had I tried, I've no doubt my stomach would have tried eating itself from the inside-out.
Can't stop eating. The day they released me from the hospital my dad insisted he drive me home. I agreed, knowing he would have to leave soon anyway for work. Turns out he took the day off. Sweet. But difficult for what I had had planned. I told him I was going out to get air yesterday, just take a walk. Reluctantly he had agreed, thought it sounded like a good idea to clear my head after what happened.
But really, I was just hungry. I needed to get away, to go find some poor bastard with unguarded money. I have my own money, I just didn't want to use it. A guy walking in front of me provided an easy score, much to my pleasant surprise. He'd had a few 20$ bills sticking out, unbeknownst to him, of course. He didn't even notice them when they were gone. It was for food, to soothe the hunger, but it wasn't enough. However, luckily for my never-ending hunger, the fridge was always well stocked, and my dad had gone to work today. I grabbed a pack of smoked salmon and felt my insides twist in anticipation. A swelling of drool coated the inside of my mouth in a slick puddle. I shuddered and gripped the edge of a counter as another wave of nausea washed over me. Hell, maybe I'm a mutant, too, I joked.
I opened the salmon and glanced down at it. The salmon lay in a soggy lump that, despite looking no different than ever, seemed disgusting, so unlike its usual appeal. I grimaced, wondered if there was something better to find that wouldn't set my stomach on edge. My mind suddenly, swiftly jogged through memories like an open book. I twisted my features in confusion.
It was if something was forcing me to look back. Forcing me to be a passenger. Building panic clawed its way up with the strength of a mountain lion. My teeth grit together as I frantically attempt to stop, but I can't. Whatever's happening would not bend. Finally it came to rest on my 8th grade year, 4th period. Mrs. Black was bustling around, trying to make sure no one was messing around. We (the class) were dissecting a brain for the first time. A sheep's brain. I'd always wanted to dissect something, and enjoyed it.
I enjoyed poking it. Seeing how easily the scalpel sliced.
Enjoyed examining every fascinating part, wondering how such a little thing governed over everything, but already knowing every part of it.
Wondered what it'd be like to dissect something larger.
The hole opened, and I could only watch as my 8th grade self held up a piece of brain on the end of a scalpel, and how I thought to myself back then how it looked so much like tofu, and I'd had the sudden urge, desire, even, to taste. An urge so much stronger now that left me doubled-over and gasping.
I wiped away at my mouth and uttered a low groan. An acidic burn was catching on my gasps and sending little bolts of pain up my throat for me to hack out. The nausea doubled ten-fold and I blindly reached into the salmon packet and shoved several pieces into my mouth. My arms shook and trembled under the weight of a fleeting suspicion that, despite all my reasoning, nudged and bubbled just under the skin. I need help.
And yet, through it all, I can't quite get that brain out of my head. Its vivid image clotted my eyes and stole my breath.
I could still see it, positioned on the scalpel, looking like nothing more than food on a knife. I had never understood why people ate brains, not until that moment. Because staring at that tofu-like piece made everything click into place, like the final piece of a long, unfinished puzzle.
What's wrong with me?
"I need help," I mutter. My skin still trembled and my stomach still swam, but I can't stay here like this.
Whatever had caused this was already narrowed down to the school's field trip lab. Everything wrong only started after I got back, and that was surely no coincidence. Damn lab. I swallowed, tasting the cold remnants of salmon, and started across the building's kitchen towards my room. I was alone today, a good thing, all things considered. It's unlikely anyone would believe a word of what's happening. A world where Avengers are real, including powered people, along with aliens and monsters, was still a world populated with the unbelieving. Those, the majority of people, still turned a blind eye whenever a strange event on a personal scale crops up. But really, is that so surprising?
Whatever sickness the lab had given me surely wouldn't be taken seriously, and though there was danger in not alerting anyone to what's happening, there's also much less time-consuming nuisances. A million questions, a million experiments, a million useless minutes before anyone finally even tried to find the problem. And by then, it'd already be to late.
Besides, I'm not going to be shipped off to a mental hospital on my last year of high school.
I slipped back into my room and closed the door.
I was perched on a bar stool near the kitchen counter when I heard the condo's entrance doors open with a rush of air. Quiet tread falls made their way across the floor. My dad, no doubt. Home early from a lucky shift that never came often enough. His voice drifted over from the entrance. "Hey kid, how you feeling?"
"How you feeling" was now his usual greeting. It was his response to me nearly dying ten days ago, and really I couldn't blame him. At least I had someone who cared. It was nice, in a way. Shrugging, I picked up my coffee . It was sitting beside the book my attention had been converged upon. It's cover was worn from time despite my efforts at keeping it in good condition. For a while quiet sipping was the only sound filling the empty air. Peaceful.
He sighed and took a seat beside me. "Come on, Sinatra." His voice was kind, soft, yet tired, as if I were a fragile glass doll someone had burdened onto him, with careful instructions on how to handle said doll each and every day. And it pushed my annoyance to no end. I could feel more than see his blue eyes wrinkle in concern. "I'm alright, Dad." And then, because I knew he would want more, " The girl I saved was worse off than me. I was cleared, the doctors let me leave. I'm fine." I gave a smile that I hope translated to "I love you, please stop worrying". I was never very good with social cues, so I could never be sure if I was sending the right message. People always seemed to get the wrong idea anyhow, so I never bother giving cues anymore when it's a pointless endeavor.
He sighed, a painful thing, the sigh of an old man who knew he could not change the mind of his stubborn daughter. He paused, "Just tell me if there's something wrong. Alright? This old man can't take many surprises, so you let me know if there's something wrong."
Nodding, I subtly shifted my head towards the book. He took his cue and left me with a pat on the back. His touch lingered far after he left, but it'd never show.
I took another peek at my bedside clock and huffed. Neither body nor mind was tired tonight. It was already 2:00 in the fucking morning and I hadn't been able to get a wink of sleep yet. After my dad left me with my book wings of twilight slowly descended upon the sky, fading the sun out till it was no more.
I closed my eyes and focused. Nothing but black filled my vision, lit up briefly by flashes of green and red that faded too quick to make sense of. Chattering voices and honking cars broke the room's silence into jagged pieces with the care of a saw, but despite this I grasped at what lay beyond those sounds. At the small spots of bound silence. My body slowly relaxed, and the tension started draining from my muscles one by one. My mind finally tried to burrow into the welcome embrace of sleep's clutches.
No, not yet. My body was yanked out of half-sleep by a hasty lurching sensation that sent electric currents of fear pulsing through my mind.
I opened my eyes, stiffened, waited with tense muscles. The voice didn't come again, but that just made me all the more weary. I shifted my arms beneath me and pushed myself up in a slow, cautious motion.
Not yet, it repeated. It sounded... Mirthful. We need to talk. You'll want to listen, it whispered.
My mouth ran dry.
My breathing slowed, turned heavy.
A strange pulsing covered my body. I stayed silent, stealthily crept my hand toward my phone resting on my bedside table. I grabbed it, clicked it on, watched as the faint light spilled over my room. Shadows curled and writhed around the edges, hungry to snuff it out and converge upon the room to bathe it back in oily darkness. I strained my eyes, looking for another body with a dubious, last attempt to deny my suspicions.
Don't do that. It's deep, silky voice hissed in amusement. Or do you see me as some "intruder"? It crooned. A slight lilt colored the words this time, oddly female sounding for a timbre so deep.
My voice cracked, but I forced myself to speak. "Listen to what?" A creeping sense of dread clung to my senses and bound me in chains. Chains of which I had no key.
The voice hissed, rattled again. I need something you can't provide. So I'll need you, to get it.
Which is what, exactly? I swallowed. A heavy, dreadful feeling, like lead, convinced me I already know what that "something" is. The image of a grey blur hovered just on the edge of my mind. An even greater sense of dread, morbid in its curiosity, wanted and me to go further. Yet it warned me to stay away. I didn't listen.
"Who... What are you?"
P.O.V Chloe:
(Thursday)
Shivering on the floor my body was. Cold seeped through my skin and penetrated the blankets piled on top of me. I glanced up at the bird-style clock hanging above my desk. The minute hand ticked ever so slowly forward, and yet still it feels like already hours have already passed. However long it had actually been since last I puked may not be as dramatic as hours, but it certainly seemed like I had been lying here for that long. I could still taste the puke and acrid stench in my mouth, it was etched into my tongue like ink. My stomach coiled again and I clutched at the pile of sheets beneath me.
Getting out of bed I stumbled to the bathroom, thanking God for letting me have the house to myself today. I leaned over the toilet and puked again, heaving out the burning acid of an empty stomach. My muscles contracted with the effort and I struggled to breath between the pauses.
Once done, I flushed the toilet, then wiped and rinsed my mouth.
Even the reflection in the mirror looked sick, complete with bags under the eyes and sweat shining across the forehead in a thin layer. It's still me, I assured myself. Pale and faded, but the still me.
"Hey, Hallhall!"
I jumped out of my skin and watched the face in the mirror contort in confusion. Only my sister calls me that nickname. I whirled and shut the bathroom door with a loud bang. "Yeah?" I shouted.
"I got burgers, hurry up and come on down here." Her voice, so usually muffled from the downstairs, was ringing clear as day.
I fidgeted and tangled my hand through my short brown locks. "I thought you said you were gonna be working till 9?"
The voice answered from the first floor. "Yeah, well," shuffling, "we got off early tonight!"
I hesitated. That was hardly my sister's pattern. And at the very least if she did get off early it wasn't usual for her to stick around for long. I glanced at my reflection again and opened the bathroom door. I got down just in time to observe my sister setting out the food. The mere sight of it set me on edge, and I had to force myself to not rush over and cram everything into my mouth, as was per habit of late. "Hey, Carole," I greeted.
She turned her gaze and took in the rumpled state of my clothes and hair. "What happened to you?"
My eyes flicked to a new found interesting spot on the floor and focused on mapping out the details. "Sick," was all I could muster up.
"Kinda already figured." She turned back around and my heart sank. Is it to much for her to ask how I feel?
"Here," she held a burger out. I carefully took it. A chasm opened under me and I felt sick. A gnawing hunger bit and clawed at my insides. A sensation that was strong enough for me to feel fear at whenever I was around others.
I sharply swung my gaze to my sister and blurted out, "I need to finish my homework. Mr. Baine gave us a new assignment and I forgot, but I love the burgers," before bounding upstairs and through the 2nd story hallway to my room.
There was no way Carole didn't hear the stumbles in my voice. I waited with baited breath behind closed doors, but no sounds of any kind followed my trail. Once more the sinking of a cracked heart rose up in all its familiar pain, but it was quickly overshadowed by relief. At least Carole's attitude meant I could still be alone for now. Ever since "The Big Flame" I had been cramming my mouth with everything edible I could get my hands on. It never seemed to be enough, no matter what I ate or how much. I had cleared out the entire pantry and fridge and finally moved on to the cupboards by the time my parents found me. In my frenzied rush they had gawked as if they were observing some new, strange animal in a cage. Only when my mother grabbed my shoulder and pulled me away did the haze in my mind clear. My body shook in remembrance. Me and my savior had been rushed to the hospital straight away, then they took us to separate rooms and that was the last I'd seen of my hero so far. The person who'd saved me instead of leaving me broken on that bathroom floor. I don't even know her name, I thought sadly. I was still so disoriented then, so much of that entire trip was foggy. But even through that fog there was a constant. A constant, new source of fear that made my head whirl and my insides shake.
Insanity.
Hello.
"Hello," I choked out. The words were a mouses' quiet whisper for fear of being swallowed by the cat.
You're so scared.
I swallowed. With hardly a breath, I gave it an answer.
"I am."